Star Fall
by Hito
Summary: Funerals are sad, but wakes are sadder. Tristan/Rory, and both survive the story. Complete.


Title: Star Fall (1/1)

Author: Hito

Rating: PG

Pairing: Tristan/Rory

Disclaimer: None of this is mine. 

Author's Note: For the Gilmore Girls Improv. Number 8: gentle, wonder, rain, promise, bruise. Minor off-screen character death. (That is, not Tristan or Rory. Or Lorelai.)

*

The rain began to fall during the burial. 

It should have been uplifting; that was supposed to be lucky. Instead, it made things harder, made it more difficult not to cry. And she couldn't cry, not in front of all these people, these strangers. She couldn't cry, even when she could see her mother's mouth gape, her mother's shoulders shake, hear the voiceless wails. She had abandoned her rosary. Rory had lost count, but she kept chanting. 

She closed her eyes and tried to think of something else. It was hard to think of anything but how much it hurt, how much it would keep on hurting, and she couldn't make the pain in her chest recede. Aiming for numbness, she knew events would distract, and fought the sudden rush of desire to leave. To turn and walk away from the grave. 

Remembered pain dulled the ache a little. Earlier that day, an hour or two removed from the initial biting sharpness. 

A soaring roof and dark pews. Mounds and mounds of wreaths and the glossy, burnished coffin displayed like a work of art. People spilling into the sanctuary, packed in as if this was a rock concert, as if this was somebody important, somebody more important than Rory's grandmother. Her mother's black lace, the dress that she had been guilted into wearing before the death. The white handkerchief that Rory had never seen before. The congregation's gentle murmurs in response to their cues. Rory's first time at church in as long as she could remember. The priest's mournful lilt, not even a prayer: 

__

'I will turn to you, 

And you will be there, 

As you always were.'

Every comforting word that drove the loss home that little bit further. Every time she thought the pain couldn't get worse, and was proved wrong. The things she would never forget. 

When she opened her eyes the turf had been folded back over the earth, and the gravediggers were tossing the wreaths on top, until all that was visible was the headstone and the obscenely bright flowers. 

It was over, and they stood around uselessly and then trudged back to the cars through the muck. 

Sookie drove, and Rory sat beside her. She knew she was avoiding her mother, but she didn't have the energy to feel bad about it. Her father slid into the back-seat and Lorelai huddled into his arms. 

Aware that she was picking at the skin around her nails, she pulled down the mirror and stared at herself blankly. The mist of rain had beaded in her hair, and little silver droplets glittered in the brown. She looked like Christmas. 

She would wonder, later, about grief, and consciousness, and the effects of emotion on perception. 

The next thing she would remember would be coming out of the bathroom by her grandfather's study. 

Her mother was speaking. "--and be nice to them, Rory. Please. They miss her too, they just don't know..." 

Lorelai's eyes were wide, the pain in them palpable, and Rory tried not to imagine what she looked like herself. 

It appeared that most of the people who had attended the service had returned to--for some reason. She didn't know any of them, even from the party her grandmother had made her hostess on New Year's Eve. 

They all smiled as she entered, and her grandfather glanced up, placing a distracted hand on her back. It was warm, and she wanted to be comforted, but he soon wandered off, settling down with a glass of brandy and gazing into space. 

She made it as far as the window, and leant against the frame. People kept smiling, and mumbling things as they passed her, but nobody tried to engage her in conversation, and whenever she saw the occasional familiar face she stayed very still, and prayed that they'd go away. After a while, she pulled back the curtain and counted the cars in the driveway. She kept losing count before she got to double figures. 

Then the food was brought out, and everyone seemed to relax. People kept trying to press things on her, kept saying words like 'sorry' and 'missed' and 'wonderful.' Rory thought they were talking about the same person, but she would never be sure. It was worse when she knew them. She kept smiling, and it kept hurting; her face ached, and her bones felt frozen. 

Time drifted. When she glanced over her shoulder, the sky was black. She waited for a good moment, and slipped out the door into the hall. 

The stairs might have been uncomfortable, but she didn't notice. Her fingers smoothed over the raised motif on the wallpaper, and she thought she'd stay there until somebody came to get her.

She tried very hard not to think about the room upstairs, where her grandmother would no longer sleep. 

She glanced up when a shadow fell over her, and then dropped her gaze and let her vision blur.

And Rory had wanted somebody, but she didn't want him, couldn't have him, because he had left, just as she had. She needed—

He sat beside her, a step down so their heads were level. She didn't look. 

"Rory." 

She was touching herself, her thumb stroking over her palm, but she couldn't feel it. She felt it when he touched her, though, pulling her hair back behind her ear.

"Rory. Are you--" 

"Fine. I'm fine." 

His hand on her jaw was soft, but determined, and it wasn't long before she gave up the fight. When she turned her head, she could feel his breath on her lips. 

"Rory... Can I...?" Familiar voice, more familiar tone, but she wasn't sure what he was asking, and she wasn't sure—

She leaned into his touch, and he kept his hand steady. She hadn't thought he had been offering that, but she needed to decide whether she wanted it. She was glad that he was there, though. She didn't want to be alone. 

"Can I do anything?" 

She snuggled down into his open palm. It might be nice to go to sleep here. She wondered if he'd lie back and let her use him as a pillow. She wanted warmth. 

Voices drifted through her haze; people nearby were leaving. 

"We--would you like to go out into the garden?" 

The door was at the end of the corridor. It took an effort to haul herself to her feet, and she spent the time wondering where she'd left her coat. She couldn't remember. 

Plunging out into the night, she didn't stop walking until she reached the darkness between the garden lights. 

The cold air slapped colour into her face, but it probably would have been there soon enough anyway; she was feverish, and writhing beneath her skin. Following slowly, he watched as she paced jerkily, five steps in each direction. 

"Rory? Should I get your mother?" 

Laughable. "No." She tipped her head back. The sky looked the same as it always did, but it was real now, and precious. The stars blazed hard against the blackness. They looked like diamonds, and she wondered if they were as unyielding. 

The scattered pinpricks grew fuzzy, and wavered. She didn't realise she was swaying on her feet until she felt Tristan's arms surround her. 

"I'm--it's fine, I'm just--I'm fine." 

"I know. Maybe we should go in." 

"No!" She took a deep, calming breath. The coldness burned. "No." Lorelai had either collapsed entirely, or she was fine, and ready to go home. And Rory didn't want to go home, because when she did, it would be over. She'd have to wake up in the morning, and know. 

"Can I do anything to help?" 

Cautious, but--she knew. She knew he felt the way he always had. 

She needed; she just wasn't certain that she wanted. 

Still, within the circle of his arms, she let her head drop back onto his shoulder, and her fists clenched. Her nails were too long; she thought maybe they'd draw blood. It was difficult to get her hands to work again, and she had to use them against each other. She was twisting her fingers together, yanking until she thought her joints would pop, and she was distantly aware that she was hurting herself, and Tristan was tugging her hands apart. 

And when she pulled away, it was his hands that had left their imprint, her flesh rubbed red and faintly mottling already. 

Her voice sounded tinny. "That's going to--" 

She had seen her grandmother the night before the funeral, before they had carried her away. Everybody had said she looked peaceful, but she hadn't. Her body had looked brittle, and stiff; Rory knew far too much about what happened in the days after death. Her face had been sunken, her paper-skin waxy and translucent, and there had been a bruise on her cheekbone. An ugly mark that had blossomed beautiful colour over the skin that wasn't real. Rory hadn't been able to stop staring. 

She would watch it grow on her own skin. 

She stared up at him, horrified. Her fingers came up to pull at her lips, and she wanted, desperately. She needed, and she had to have. She had to have something. 

"Tristan." 

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..." He didn't find the expected accusation in her expression, and trailed off, confused. 

She stepped closer. "You understand, don't you? You know." 

"Know what?" 

"Your grandfather. You understand." 

He winced. She ignored it. "You know what I've lost." 

"I know it's hard, Rory." 

He was scared; she could sense it. "There's nothing...." 

She could see him trying to puzzle it out. "You will feel better, eventually." 

"There's nothing left. I don't have anything, Tristan. Nothing's true anymore." 

Watching his eyes widen, she stepped forward, and kept moving towards him. Her eyelids were prickling, and she felt a little hysterical, but this was real, this was true. 

"Rory." He was shaking his head. Maybe he recognised some of her expressions as well. "You don't want me." 

"I do." 

"No. You don't. You told me you didn't." 

He was still holding her at arms length, but there was no force behind it. It was a moment's work to breach the distance between them. 

His mouth was hotter than she could remember anything being, and his body felt wonderful, warm and solid against hers. She needed this. She needed someone. His kisses were familiar, known, wonderfully consoling. 

"I was wrong." 

"You said you didn't l--" 

"I was wrong, Tristan. I shouldn't have pushed you away." 

A bark that was intended for a laugh. "Pushed me...." 

But she was right there, and she didn't give him time to think, cradling his head between her hands and dealing out suckling kisses that drew him further in. She needed him; she had to have him. "It was a mistake. I'm sorry. You still want me, don't you?" 

And she knew he'd fall for it, knew he wouldn't want to hurt her. And it could pass as truth, and she was so scared. 

Tristan's chuckle rumbled into her body. "Want you." He mumbled known words into her mouth. "Rory, I love you...." 

Rory pulled away, breathless. "Promise me. Promise you won't leave. Swear to me, Tristan." 

"You know I won't." She held him away, and he sighed impatiently. "Fine, I promise." 

And as he kissed her again, his heat flooded her body. It still hurt, but she had found an anaesthetic. 

She knew she didn't love him, and she never would; and she knew it didn't matter: she would never let him go. 

End


End file.
